From: "SubRosa" To: Subject: [XFNC17ff] NEW: Gifts From the Heart, 1/4 Date: Sunday, March 24, 2002 10:11 AM TITLE: Gifts from the Heart AUTHOR: SubRosa (subrosa31@yahoo.com) DISTRIBUTION: Wherever you like, but please let me know. RATING: Hard NC-17 WARNING: Contains graphic, non-consensual sex (no violence). Do NOT read if you may be offended. CATEGORY: SA, MSR SPOILERS: Vague conspiracy arc, "Lazarus," and "All Things." KEYWORDS: S/O (pre-XF), Mulder/Scully romance. Scully POV. DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting, and to the actors who portray them. No copyright infringement is intended. SUMMARY: Smut and angst, angst and smut. Scully and Mulder deal with the events of "The Gift." DEDICATION: To the readers who requested a sequel to "The Gift." You're the only reason this story was written. THANKS: To the MS Smut list for their advance comments, especially Donnilee. Special thanks to Sdani and "Comma Queen" Jemirah for beta work. All remaining mistakes, of course, are mine. FEEDBACK: Cherished at subrosa31@yahoo.com. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story shows Scully's perspective on the events of "The Gift" and its aftermath. It will not make sense if you have not read the first story, but please be aware of the content warnings. Both stories contain coerced sexual contact between the main characters. Please do NOT read if you may be offended. Readers under 17: please respect the age restriction on this story. Scully's POV is influenced by a discussion among the wonderful ladies at the Haven about rape and its effects. I have tried to portray the trauma of assault respectfully, but have taken some artistic license in the speed and means by which Scully recovers. No diminishment of the real horror of rape or struggle of its survivors is intended, either by Scully's recovery process or the storyline itself. ******************* Mulder was definitely up to something that weekend, and I'm pretty sure it was about us. The case that he drummed up didn't warrant Bureau time or resources, which in and of itself wasn't unusual, but everything else about it was. I was surprised when he suggested that we drive instead of flying, but since it would only add a couple hours to our trip I wrote it off as a rare sop to Accounting's latest complaint about our extravagant travel expenses. No, what tipped his hand was his "casual" suggestion that I bring some hiking gear even though nothing in the file suggested that we'd need to do any serious work in the woods. Clearly he had something else in mind. On the drive down, he alternated between taciturn brooding and almost hyper chattiness. Although he tried to hide it, I caught him looking at me sidelong throughout the trip. He was a little subtler when we began the actual investigation, but all the signs were there once I knew to look for them. Mulder was planning something. It finally hit me Thursday night over dinner. His mind kept wandering away from the case onto tangents about the weather, the scenery, and how he'd like to spend a little more time here. Mulder is not normally prone to that sort of small talk. When we returned to the motel he lingered while saying goodnight, hesitating longer than usual in the doorway to my room. When I finally edged him out and shut the door behind him, it all clicked: Mulder wanted us to spend the weekend together. The case was just a pretext for getting us down here. Why he'd done so was a little harder to piece together. Maybe he just wanted a little vacation and didn't think I'd agree if he asked me straight out, but his secrecy and lingering glances suggested there was more to it. That's when I realized that his intentions were, well, romantic. At first, I was elated. I stopped lying to myself about my feelings for Mulder a long time ago. I'm in love with him, but I've always hidden it from him. I didn't think he was ready for it--love doesn't fit in with his burning passion for his quests. So I was thrilled when I realized that he thought the time was right for us. As I lay in bed that night, however, doubts began to gnaw at me. Some of them were professional. I've been involved with men I worked with before, and it's both potentially detrimental to my career and terribly awkward if it doesn't work out. That was a small but real factor in my doubts: I couldn't stand the thought of losing him for a sexual relationship that, given my track record (and his), didn't stand the best chance of succeeding. But if I'm honest with myself, what I was really afraid of was that it *would* succeed and that I'd lose myself to him. He'd turn his passion and focus and intensity on me, and I'd be consumed. The last bit of me that hasn't been given over to the X-Files would be gone entirely. All the next day I wavered between conflicting emotions: excitement and fear. The fear, of course, added an edge to the excitement. Even with my love of order, I know that a predictable relationship doesn't have any spark. My last relationship didn't have any. But I know Mulder could set off sparks. My carefully hidden distraction didn't hinder our "solving" of the case, which ended up solving itself. Sooner than I'd expected we were ostensibly headed back to DC and my emotions were more tangled than they were the night before. I could almost hear the gears in Mulder's head turning as he pondered how to ask me to spend the weekend with him, and I still didn't know what my answer would be. So I hid under the pretext of studying the map. And then the choice was stolen from me. Somehow we were taken and forced into a situation that made me confront things about myself that I never wanted to face. Even worse, all my secret pleasures and shames were pulled from me and displayed not by the human monsters we chase, not by our enemies, but by my partner. By Mulder. ***** I've known for a long time that sexual submission aroused me. I first discovered it when I was in med school. My limited sexual experience with my college boyfriend was generally satisfying, but no more. Between the fumblings of a well-intentioned but overeager partner and my own self-consciousness, I found sex to be a serious, earnest experience that sometimes brought an orgasm but rarely involved true intimacy or laughter. That changed my second year in med school, when I began dating another student who was in the last year of the program. I did love Rafi, but we both knew that the relationship wasn't likely to last past his graduation. Looking back, I guess that even then my relationships involved emotional distance, but neither of us thought of it that way at the time. Most of my memories of Rafi are good, probably because we were never committed enough to have the arguments that inevitably happen in a serious relationship. What I remember most fondly, however, is that he introduced me to something I hadn't really experienced before: that sex could be *fun.* I learned a lot about positions and technique from him--med students don't have many inhibitions--but what set him apart from the other lovers I've had was that he introduced me to sex games of all sorts, including dominance and power play. We took turns being dominant and submissive, although we never used those terms. It never went beyond a little light bondage and toys from the Xandria catalogue (his subscription, not mine). We didn't even have safewords--that was before BDSM went mainstream. Generally, we just had fun. And I learned that I enjoyed submission. When Rafi graduated and went off to a neurology internship in New York the relationship ended amicably; we still exchange Christmas cards, in fact. I guess I remember him as the last carefree relationship of my youth. After him, my relationships were less fun and the power games became more subtle but much more real. During my final year of med school one of my professors started to show an interest in me. I was flattered and more than a little awed by what I saw as his self-confidence and assurance; now I know that those qualities were backed by a healthy dose of narcissism and arrogance. His name was Daniel, and he was married. I didn't know that when we began dating, but as I will regret for the rest of my life, I didn't leave him when I found out. The relationship carried on for a long time after that discovery, but there was always an undercurrent of tension and guilt. Mine, not his: I don't think Daniel ever realized what our affair did to his family. There was no overt dominance and submission in our sexual relationship--I'm sure that Daniel would have seen those games as immature--but he took the lead in bed just as he did everywhere else. And I'll admit that I liked it that way. The guilt faded a little when I wasn't in charge. Even though Daniel was more experienced and assured, his lovemaking was reminiscent of that of my college boyfriend. I didn't come all the time, or even most of the time. He made it quite clear, however, that he was very considerate of my needs, and even though I should have known better I believed that my lack of pleasure was my fault, not his. I decided that perhaps I had become too dependent upon Rafi's games and props, and found myself internally scrutinizing and criticizing my sexual performance in a way that I never had before. The relationship finally ended when I decided to enter the Bureau. I told myself that I was leaving to save whatever was left of Daniel's family, and I did. I'm not sure that I would have had the strength, though, if Daniel hadn't objected to my career decision so strongly. His disapproval on top of my father's--it was too much. Finally, I broke away. Thus began a sexual dry spell that pales in comparison to what I've endured since I joined the X-Files, but was then the longest one I'd experienced. Naturally, I turned to more solitary means of sexual gratification. I developed a range of fantasies, but my favorite was the man whose face I never saw, who teased and tantalized me and always gave me just what I needed--but only in exchange for my submission to him. He alone of all my fantasy men invariably brought me to orgasm. My last serious relationship was with Jack Willis. Jack was a good man. He was like Daniel in that he was older, driven, and my teacher, but he supported my ambitions in a way that Daniel never had. Maybe I had a thing for older men, or maybe I was trying to do my relationship with Daniel over and get it right this time. Like Daniel's, Jack's lovemaking was pretty traditional. He was attentive to my needs, if not creative. Only once did we skirt the edges of bondage and dominance. Jack had been working long hours tracking a serial rapist; not the most brutal or prolific, but better than most at covering his tracks, and Jack was taking it personally. One night he came to bed after getting too immersed in his profile. I noticed the difference right away; he was more energetic, more forceful, and I found myself responding eagerly--until he pinned my wrists to the bed with such force that he left bruises. We both recoiled simultaneously but for different reasons. Jack was horrified by what he'd done and instantly contrite. He took my silence as evidence of disgust and became profusely apologetic. In fact, I was just trying to sort out what I was feeling. My physical response when he trapped my hands was so strong that it stunned me; the cry that brought Jack back to himself, thinking that he'd hurt me, was actually one of pure lust. Emotionally, though, I was cringing, and the dichotomy confused me. As Jack pressed remorseful kisses along my neck, I realized that I didn't want him to see how enthusiastically I had responded to his assumption of control. After I finally convinced Jack to stop worrying about me and go to sleep, I lay awake for a long time thinking about what had happened. In spite of my rich fantasy life, it was the first time I actually admitted to myself that I found it erotic to be dominated. That realization prompted a round of soul-searching. If asked about the subject, of course, I could have explained that it didn't reflect a subconscious desire to be raped or coerced, that it was no indication of a weak character, that it didn't suggest that one was submissive anywhere else in life. In short, that wanting to be dominated was a perfectly normal fantasy enjoyed by a lot of people of both sexes. That's what I would have said if asked about submission in someone else. Irrational though it was, however, it wasn't something I wanted to confront in myself. I had worked long and hard to take control of my life, to shape myself in my own image, and that's the person Jack saw. The last thing I wanted was to go back to was being the subordinate partner in a relationship, no matter how small a part of it. Even as I reacted emotionally against what I perceived as a weakness, rationally I knew that something else was wrong. If I was that afraid of trusting my partner with my sexual fantasies, then something was missing in our relationship. I thought it over for a month or so and realized that I just didn't want to make myself that emotionally vulnerable to Jack. I broke it off soon afterwards, although we parted on good terms. I didn't have time to get into a serious relationship before I was assigned to the X-Files and then, after a few failed attempts at dating, I learned what "sexual dry spell" really meant. I went back to my fantasy life, back to the faceless man with the silk scarves and the feather-light, infinitely knowing touch. Oh, I still had a range of other erotic scenarios. I even made a point of reviewing and adding to them regularly so that I could convince myself that Dana Scully yielded to no one even in her imagination. Even though I didn't admit it to myself, however, I was developing an increasing fondness for submission scenes, my careful efforts to rotate them with others collapsing during times of stress. As time went on another problem emerged in my fantasies: the starring role that Mulder began to play in them. In all of them, really. I tried to avoid it, occasionally browsing through bookstores or surfing the web for erotica vivid enough to replace the images of Mulder that were intruding more and more frequently into my daydreams. All that did was give my mind more varied roles to create for him. In the darker hours that haunted our lives, the best way I found to release tension was to lie back in a hot bath, close my eyes and imagine a blissful evening free of anxiety and responsibility in which Mulder rewarded my obedience with the most sublime pleasures. I've been going over those memories again and again ever since we got back from Tennessee. We never did figure out how we were taken. I remember regaining consciousness slowly, aware that something wasn't right but not knowing what. First came the medicinal smell that made me think I'd woken up in a hospital until I realized that I was seated in a chair, not lying in a bed. My mind grew clearer, but my body didn't seem awake enough to move. Then I heard men's voices tossing words back and forth at a level not quite heated enough to be an argument, but close. Their conversation faded in and out of my mind like a badly-tuned radio. "...sure that the profile is right?" That voice sounded younger and unaccented. An older, irritated voice. "...research is sufficient. It is accurate." The first voice again, coming in clearer as I became more alert. "We're ahead of schedule. We should question her." Question me? What was going on? My heart raced, but my body remained stubbornly lethargic. The second voice sounded even more annoyed. "The profile does not call for that here. It would be counterproductive." A third voice, older and faintly accented, cut off the debate. "That is enough. Proceed according to the plan." That's when the man whom I identified as the second speaker came over to me and began speaking in a gentle tone. I don't think he asked me any questions. I actually don't remember most details: neither his face nor his exact words. I know that Mulder thinks that was all part of the general plan, but I don't care. I don't think I could stand to relive a clear memory of a stranger implanting the behavior that I would later act out with Mulder. I don't want to remember that violation. Some details are clear. He told me that I wouldn't be harmed. He told me what the drug was intended to do. My rational side, of course, assumed that he was trying to frighten me; there's no compound that does anything remotely close to what he claimed it did. I believed him when he told me to hold out my arm for another injection and I watched my left arm extend obediently and remain still as they prepared the hypodermic, swabbed my arm, and injected me--a display intended, I'm sure, to demonstrate the effectiveness of the compound. After that things get much fuzzier. There are a few sharp recollections, but mostly just images and sensation. I can remember his voice reverberating in my head for a long time. There was an awful feeling of panic that returns even now if I try to press the recollection too hard. Then his voice fell silent as images came swirling around my mind with an almost overwhelming force. First was the onslaught of memories. Daniel selecting the clothes I would wear for an evening out, from my winter overcoat right down to the lingerie he wanted to see me in later. Jack holding my wrists to the bed as a wave of desire rushed through me. Over and over I relived the time that I truly learned how erotic submission could be, when Rafi tied me prone on the bed and alternately teased me with a vibrator and spanked me, first lightly and then with increasing force, until I was almost babbling and had to muffle my screams in the pillow when I finally came. In reality, the next morning Rafi was afraid he'd gone too far. He brought me breakfast in bed and contritely hand-fed me bits of buttered croissant until I was laughing, and that night *he* was the one face-down on the bed pleading for mercy. As I sat slumped in the chair, though, the memory never progressed that far. Instead it segued into a different image of arousal and domination. The memories didn't stay memories. They transformed, becoming edgier and more intense than the reality had been, and the man in them was always replaced by Mulder. Mulder telling me to strut around the room again so that he could admire the black silk and lace he had selected to complement my fair skin. Mulder above my yielding body, trapping both my hands in one of his as he pumped roughly into me. Mulder's voice teasing me as I gasped into the pillow, telling me how much he loved watching me quiver as I wondered whether the next touch would be a stinging slap or jolt of ecstasy. And those images became mingled with the fantasies that I'd developed over the years, all similarly slanted. The beach in Tahiti never made an appearance, nor did any of the other men who occasionally guest-starred in my dreams. Like the memories, the fantasies were drawn from my mind but more intense and consuming. At the time I felt a faint detachment, as if I were observing a slideshow, but now the images are as vivid as if I were sitting in that chair again... ...I'm blindfolded, but I can picture my body as it appears to him looking down on me. My arms and legs are stretched wide, each tied to a bedpost with a swatch of the smoothest silk. In my splayed position nothing is hidden from him, and I know that he can see the wetness glistening between my thighs. His soft voice and warm hands are trailing over me, teasing me... ...I'm on my knees before him, burning with desire, so overcome by lust that I can't decide which is stronger: the need to taste him or the aching emptiness between my legs. I groan with relief as his hands tangle in my hair, stealing the choice from me as he shoves his cock into my willing mouth... They came faster and stronger, intoxicating me. As they flooded over me they transformed into the fantasies I'm ashamed to look at in the light of day and pull out only when I need their dark eroticism to bring the relief that the tamer ones sometimes can't. ...I'm kneeling on a bed, intensely aroused, with my legs folded beneath me and parted wide. Mulder is seated in a chair opposite me, his burning gaze holding mine. I'm making love to a buzzing plastic egg, my hips pulsing frantically as my clenched hand holds it fixedly between my shaking thighs. I come with a shout, then sag in relief as the vibrations fade to a stop, letting my desperate movements slow as well. But my hand remains locked between my thighs and after only a brief respite the egg jumps back to life, relentlessly stimulating me anew. It hums and vibrates as Mulder plays with the remote control in his hand, watching and smiling gently as my hips start to jerk involuntarily again. Incoherent pleas issue from my open mouth as I rub myself faster on the tireless little monster, my resentment at the need it forces on me putting the perfect edge on the gratification it promises... Oh, yes, that one always works. As I surrendered to the rush of fantasies, one that I'd formerly toyed with only obliquely came into full focus... ...I'm standing before Mulder, my eyes downcast meekly. My hands are slightly extended from my body with the palms facing forward, showing him that my wrists are encircled with golden chains that link to a heavier one around my waist. A jeweled bauble decorates my clit, matching those dangling from my clamped nipples. My body is nude except for a light dusting of gold paint. Even though I'm not permitted to lift my eyes I know that Mulder's gaze is raking over me, and I tremble with desire as he stalks in a circle around me, telling me that I'm his, telling me what he's going to do to me. Each word touches my body like a physical caress, and within minutes I'm whimpering with need, eager for the pleasure that I know will come from obeying his commands... Oh, that one is so good. My head fell back as the fantasy came alive in my mind. It swirled around, consuming me, absorbing and incorporating all the other memories and sweeping me up into pure sensation. I don't know how long I sat there entranced by the images. Eventually the man's voice returned, driving them away. He must have given me instructions, because I can see myself nodding and sometimes whispering agreement. Although I felt a vague sense of satisfaction when he told me I'd done well, his approval didn't mean that much to me. No, I needed to serve and please Mulder. Only his praise could complete me. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind than horror shot through the detached part of me that was observing. I grasped his plan a heartbeat before he informed me, with an air of magnanimity, that I was to be presented to Mulder as soon as I was made ready for him. Even as my mind recoiled, the other, larger part of me thrilled with excitement. My pulse fluttered as fear clashed with anticipation of what was to happen. Satisfaction showed on his face as he glanced at the pulse monitor that they must have set up when I was lost in that erotic fugue. I think that cycle repeated several times, with some blank periods in my memory that may have been sleep. Finally he told me that it was time to prepare myself to go to Mulder and to serve him as I now so desperately wanted to do. I was led to a featureless bathroom where my own toiletry kit was waiting for me. Even as my rational side recognized that I was destroying possible evidence, the rest of me hummed with delight as I showered and washed my hair in expectation of being with Mulder soon. I docilely donned a paper hospital gown and slippers and followed my escort to the car that would take me to him. We drove for some time, but the journey was a blur to me as the images still played in my head. Then I was led from the car, divested of robe and slippers, and sent into the cabin. Mulder was there, talking to someone whose voice I identified as the third man in the lab. Their conversation was meaningless noise to me until Mulder called my name. When he told me to approach him, I jumped at the shock of arousal as if touched by a live wire. Obeying him brought a rush of pleasure that made me shudder. I stood behind him as he continued to converse heatedly with our captor, outwardly placidly awaiting his next command. Inwardly I felt enraged and violated by this latest attack on my autonomy. I was also appalled at giving myself to Mulder like this. I had been willing to think that we might be able to be both lovers and partners, but that surely would be impossible now that he would inevitably associate sex with my greatest weakness. The inner conflict continued when Mulder began to gently question me. Part of me wanted nothing more than to give myself to him for whatever purpose he wanted. That part shivered with delight when his voice floated over me and his hands touched my body, moving me as he pleased. The other side of me was aghast. My thoughts chased one another around and around my head, yielding only confusion. It was wrong, I knew, but his mere presence made me so hot that I couldn't think straight. When he began to speak more firmly to me, the burning need to please him sharpened my thoughts when my own efforts could not. Though I'm sure that Mulder only saw the growing need reflected on my face and in my body, the more clearly I could think, the more embarrassed and horrified I became. When he offered me the choice to disobey a command, I seized on what I thought was an escape from my subjugation to him. I was wrong. Instead, the act of refusal somehow deepened my need for him. I was reduced to pleading for release that, when granted, was so intense that I could not stand upright. When I came back to myself he had caught me up in his arms, his embrace assuring me that he had forgiven my impudence. Guilt tormented me as I heard the underlying panic in his voice, and I was utterly unable to check the words that tumbled from my lips as his questions began again. I struggled to help him find a solution until he made a misstep that caused a panic attack such as I have never had before and hope never to have again. By the time he lit upon a strategy that finally allowed me to speak for myself, I was exhausted, my mind reeling from the buffeting of such conflicting emotions: the desperate need, the shattering ecstasy, the awful panic. Ashamed as I am of it now, all I wanted was to give in and let the confusion seep away as I placed myself wholly under his control. I breathed a sigh of relief when he let the questions go and began tentatively to touch me, but his gentle, tender efforts that would have been so welcome under other circumstances left me feeling dissatisfied and incomplete. In the end, it was his voice that finally brought me the blessed release of climax and then an exhausted sleep. Even my dreams were invaded by the images and fantasies, augmented by new ones of Mulder's voice asserting his rightful claim over my body. When I awakened, it was to a more burning and urgent need to serve him and shame that I had not done so earlier. Mulder, of course, wanted to talk instead. Hoping that he could yet find an escape for us I tried to help him, but it soon became clear that our efforts were futile. Sickening shame and despair accompanied the realization that this was how we were going to make love for the first and, I suspected, last time. Sex I could handle, but I couldn't stand the thought that Mulder was going to learn every one of my darkest fantasies from my own unwilling lips. If that happened our partnership would be irrevocably damaged. Then he hit upon the solution of asking me what I didn't like. For a brief, clear moment I remembered why I love Mulder even in his most obsessive, self-centered moments. A threat to me would always pull him from that self-absorption and he would become infinitely creative and persistent in trying to avert it. With immense relief, I sought to protect what few secrets I could possibly preserve under these circumstances. If I could just keep silent, I thought, he might attribute my reactions to the intervention of our captors. We could get out of here without him seeing the weakness that I always hid from him and planned always to hide. I still become aroused when I think of what happened next. Mulder ordered me to silence and gave me my first taste of what the next few hours would be like. At his teasing words and touches I felt my anxiety slipping away. The critical, analytical part of me that had been observing from the beginning finally fell silent; indeed, I could barely think at all as he toyed with my breasts. I've always enjoyed stimulation there as foreplay, but his promises of an orgasm from that touch nearly made me swoon. That would be my first act of total submission to him, I realized. Not because I would otherwise be unwilling to give it to him, but because I would normally be incapable of it. Absently noticing that I was shamelessly thrusting and rubbing my breasts against his hands, I eagerly embraced the building pressure that proved his dominance superceded my body's limitations. The sensations multiplied when he began to use his mouth on me, driving me inexorably toward that moment when he brought me to total compliance to his will. It was just like my fantasies, only now it wasn't soft and misty. It was rough, hot, and infinitely more exciting. As his merciless teasing continued, I lost awareness of anything but the white-hot need in my nipples. Finally I heard my voice shriek in ecstasy as he mastered me with an orgasm so blinding that I passed out. I awoke eager for further commands. I was somewhat perturbed when it appeared that he didn't intend to use me at once, but as he led me to the kitchen for a meal I felt myself settling into subjection to him. Soon I didn't even require his touch; the mere act of obeying his wishes set my body thrumming with excitement. By the time we had finished clearing away the dishes I was squirming with need, desperately hoping for him to push me against the counter and take me right there. Thanks to my own request, though, I couldn't tell him that. The Mulder of my fantasies never gagged me, preferring to savor my pleas and to demand that I tell him in graphic detail how I reacted to his touch. It was a new, delicious sensation to feel the words well up within me only to be checked, creating an ever-building tension that only he could release. His indifference to my pleading expression simply inflamed me further. That's what drove home to me that Mulder was now utterly in control, that I had no say at all in what he would do to me. In my altered state, that thought alone would have made me come if I'd been able to do so without his permission. Finally he sent me back to the bed and began whispering the most delicious words: commands that pierced my brain and transfixed me with pleasure. It seemed that all the images that had run through my mind in the lab were returning at once, and my body could barely keep pace with the urges that pummeled me incessantly. I have only one clear memory after that: of being displayed for him on the bed, my hands fixed immobile to the rails and my legs spread obscenely wide. My burning nipples chafed against the sheets as I thrust against the bed in a vain effort to soothe my screaming clit, knowing I couldn't be satisfied until his cock finally filled me. After that, my memories fade into a riot of sensation such as I had never imagined even in fantasy. Mulder's voice was in my head, becoming my thoughts. His erotic demands and praise for my obedience stoked the heat inside me even as his hands, tongue and cock expertly worked my body, commanding complete responsiveness from it. Stimulated from within and without, I simply let my consciousness drift. Obedience ceased to be a conscious act; he spoke and I responded, possessing no volition but his. There was an incredible freedom in yielding so completely. For once in my life, there was no anxiety about being responsive enough to please my partner. I was a channel for the rushing need that moved my limbs and guided my wordless voice. Dana Scully was forgotten. I was Mulder's sweetheart, his baby, finding completion as he used me so thoroughly and lovingly. It was exactly what I had dreamed of: no fear, no shame, only the bliss of knowing I was his most cherished plaything. Somehow he teased me until the tension became too much. I remember being so overwhelmed with need that I had to speak, to plead with him for satisfaction. And when he responded, he called me not by the endearments he had been using, but rather "Scully." Something happened then to break the hazy bubble that surrounded me. I jerked back to full awareness, completely lucid again but still frantically aroused and utterly enslaved to Mulder's will. This was no harmless fantasy, I realized as I lay back on the bed and eagerly parted my legs. It was no dream-lover who appeared at night, gave me what I needed, and dissipated with the dawn. Those strong hands forcing my thighs further apart, those lips--God!--teasing my clit were real. This was Mulder, the man I worked with every day, whose respect mattered to me more than any other's, who had always seen me as an equal. No longer. Now he knew what a sham that was, how unbearably alluring I found being controlled. He'd never see me the same way again. But oh, my mind chanted, it *was* Mulder's fingers rolling my nipples, Mulder's voice urging me on, Mulder's tongue ruthlessly exciting me; it was Mulder possessing me as I had dreamed of being possessed, arousing me as I have never been aroused before. It was the realization of the fantasies that had tormented me for years as I tossed restlessly in my lonely bed. Fueled by those thoughts, my final orgasm built to almost unbearable intensity before it finally washed over me, taking consciousness with it. I awoke to alertness again, unable to speak and with my eyes tightly shut. With the return of awareness came the fear and anxiety about what would happen to us now. When Mulder returned I grasped at the escape that he unwittingly offered and sank back into the oblivion of sleep. ***** My head was clearer when I awoke the next morning and extricated myself carefully from Mulder's embrace. As I stood up I nearly doubled over from the sudden cramp deep in my belly. Too many orgasms too quickly; it had been a *long* time since I'd had that problem. That thought was quickly driven from my mind by the horror of realizing what had happened the previous night. I scooped up Mulder's discarded shirt and staggered into the bathroom, debating the wisdom of a shower. That would destroy trace evidence, but we weren't going to report this. Decision made, I climbed into the shower and stood under the hot flow of the mineral-heavy water as I checked myself over for injuries. There was no indication of rough treatment by our captors and I wasn't sore even though it had been years since I'd last had sex. Mulder must have been terribly gentle with me, I thought, feeling a spark of gratitude in spite of my despair at having consummated our relationship under the worst circumstances imaginable. My mind flitted back to trace evidence, and I paused my examination in confusion. Even before I began to shower there was no physical indication of what had been a long night of extended lovemaking. What had happened? Reluctantly I forced my mind to review the previous evening, tamping down residual arousal mixed with disgust. The memories that emerged weren't really of physical acts, but rather of Mulder's voice constantly whispering to me: reassuring me, commanding me, arousing me. I felt my forehead wrinkle as I traced back that line of thought. What I remembered most clearly was the heart-stopping intensity of that final orgasm as he coaxed me to previously unknown heights--with his words, I realized, not with his lips and tongue. My mind scrabbled for a solid memory. Everything that seemed to be a sensory experience actually was memorable because I heard Mulder's voice telling me what I was feeling. Strange images floated through my mind--did I dream about Mulder catching me masturbating?--including the sensation of his clothed leg against my bare one. Mulder strikes me as the sort who would take his slacks off to have sex, so something was wrong. The more I thought, the more I became convinced that he had hardly touched me at all, instead spinning an illusion so irresistible that I believed it. That could not have happened by chance. In spite of my efforts to protect my secrets, somehow Mulder had found them out. He knew my fantasies, my hidden, shameful pleasures. I stood frozen in the shower, moving only to turn it off when the water ran cold. Not until he called me could I stir myself to don his shirt again and come out to face him. A brief, tentative conversation confirmed my fears. Mulder had profiled me like a criminal and found out my darkest secrets. Now he knew that beneath the image of strength and independence that I have always shown to him was a woman who reveled in weakness and craved domination. I pulled away from his efforts to reach me and withdrew into myself. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to meet his eyes again. ******************** That was two months ago. When the cabin door opened, Mulder waited a few minutes before cautiously stepping out and finding his car and all our possessions waiting for us in front of the cabin. We made our way home in near-silence. Mulder briefly summarized his speculations about why we had been taken, telling me that he believed our captors had created a situation meant to drive us apart. I was too numb to respond and he soon fell silent. Ever since then, he has respected my request not to discuss what happened. We were back at work on Monday, by silent agreement pretending that nothing had happened. Certainly there was nothing we could report to the Bureau. We returned to our normal pattern of working cases and, to all outward appearances, things were fine. In fact things weren't fine and we both knew it. Mulder could see that I was tired and edgy. A couple times since he has gently asked if I was all right but knew not to push the issue, accepting my curt affirmations at face value. I can't tell him that I'm not all right. Maybe, just maybe, I could tell him that I wake up at night in a cold sweat, trapped in my immobile body with that awful voice ripping into my brain, stealing my autonomy. But I could never tell him that I go to sleep each night reliving the sensation of his hands and voice coaxing me to ecstasy, that sometimes the memories are so vivid that I have to seek relief, always pretending that my touch is really his. That would open the door to too many questions. What nags at me the most, perhaps, is my speculation that Mulder had planned a romantic weekend for us. I don't know how I would have reacted if he had proposed it; the idea still frightens me. Lethal though it would have been to the mood, I think I would have needed to talk to him about what a new kind of relationship would have done to our working partnership. I couldn't have made that big of a change without working through the repercussions first. The vulnerability of a sexual relationship, especially given what I had learned about my quirks and preferences, was not something I could enter without careful thought. And that's perhaps why I was so anxious about the idea, even after I admitted to myself that I loved Mulder. Sex and romance with him wouldn't be about negotiating space, respecting boundaries and compartmentalizing emotion into planned weekends away. It would be about spontaneity, whirlwind passions and consuming need that left worrying about the repercussions until later. No, I don't think I would have talked to him about it. I would have fretted and worried about revealing too much of myself between bouts of passionate sex, even though I know Mulder would never think less of me. Of course, it's all moot now. The balance of power and respect in our relationship has been so upset that I can't see ever setting it right. Our working partnership has become strained, but I don't know what to do about it. I plan each day's clothing the night before, scrutinizing hemlines and the cleavage revealed by garments I never thought about twice before. I jump when I hear his voice behind me unexpectedly. And worst of all, I analyze every request he makes, searching for a hidden suggestion that he has lost some of his respect for me. It hasn't helped, I'm sure, that I've been searching my memories to piece together what really happened. Each realization brings a new wave of anger and violation. Some days a memory will randomly float through my mind as we're sitting in the office and it's all I can do not to scream at him. "Did you like hearing me beg you to fuck me, Mulder? Does that turn you on?" "If I bend over to get a file from the bottom drawer, will you be remembering how easy it was to get me to lift my ass and spread my legs for you?" "When you bite back your words during an argument, are you wishing that your voice could silence me and make me climax until there's nothing in my eyes but need and adoration?" "The next time you feel horny, instead of putting a tape in the VCR are you going to say to yourself, 'I think I'll relive the time I made Scully play with herself while I watched?'" That last vision isn't fair. None of it is, really. If I'm sure about anything that happened that weekend, it's that Mulder didn't use the opportunity to gain pleasure for himself. Quite the opposite, in fact. It must have been torture for him to do what he did while keeping his own desires in check. That's yet another reason why I can't talk to him about it. I can't hide my feelings entirely from him, but he doesn't need to know the full, ugly story. It would only make him feel worse to know that in his efforts to deny himself by drawing those fantasies from my mind, he committed what I saw as a violation far worse than the use of my body. It's irrational to blame him when he was trying so hard to protect me, but I can't keep the resentment tamped fully down. Especially because the memories, even as they anger me, still make me squirm with lust. Part of me is surprised that these images are still pleasurable, but I suppose ten years' worth of sexual fantasy doesn't vanish overnight. The acts are still exciting and the man is even more so. I'm frightened to admit this, but perhaps the urges that I had identified as desires are really needs. Maybe I really have to sometimes, just sometimes, feel dominated to be fully sexually satisfied. That might explain why none of my relationships blossomed into something either permanent or satisfying. I never trusted a lover enough to let him see the vulnerability that I both feared and desired. Mulder is the only man I might ever have trusted that much, who has seen me vulnerable in other ways and been unfazed. Perhaps over time I would have been able to reveal some of my fantasies to him; choosing what to tell him and how to act them out might have counterbalanced the control that I gave up by sharing them. But now we'll never know. The most important change imaginable in our relationship happened under duress and violation, with Mulder taking from me the secrets that I hid even from myself. Secrets that I should have given to him as gifts. Much as I hate to admit it to myself, I've been wondering if I should transfer back to Quantico. It's not rational, I know. I should talk to someone to try to process what has happened to me. But who? How in the world could I explain it? As time goes by, my nightmares are becoming more frequent, not less. I can tell that the strain is beginning to show, because Mulder has abandoned any effort to be subtle as he watches me for clues to what I'm thinking. Still, he hasn't said anything. Which is why I was stunned to find him in my apartment tonight when I returned from dinner with my mother. ***** "Mulder, what the hell are you doing here?" He has the decency to look guilty, but only mildly so. "We have to talk about what happened when we were in Tennessee. We've put it off too long as it is." Maybe I should have seen this coming but I didn't, and I'm as annoyed at being caught off-guard as by his invasion of my privacy. "There's nothing to discuss, Mulder. I'm fine. I don't blame you for what happened." He doesn't move from the couch. "You are not fine, Scully. Neither of us is fine. We have to deal with this together, or it will rip us apart." God, it's so tempting to have him here. Part of me desperately wants to unburden myself to him, but I keep it in check. The only way that I can get through this whole affair with what's left of my self-respect intact is by showing Mulder that I'm capable of dealing with it on my own. "Mulder, I just need to process it at my own pace. I'm getting over it just fine." "Right," he scoffs, "you're getting over it. That's why you're always pale as a ghost, you barely even look at me anymore, and every time I ask you for something you look like I've told you to give me a lap dance." He leans forward, pinning me with a glance. "You need to talk about this, and I think that you won't because you're embarrassed by what I learned about you. Do you really believe I would think less of you? For God's sake, Scully, I told you I enjoy it too. Do you think less of me?" I shake my head. It's a gesture of confusion more than a response to his question. I understand that my sexual preferences don't define my personality elsewhere, but what I think and what I feel seem too disjointed and contradictory to ever put back together. Mulder's keen gaze reminds me of why I am often relieved that he rarely seems to give me his full attention. When he does, as now, it seems that he can see right through me. I can tell that he's set on his course of action and nothing will sway him. Abruptly the unwelcome thought intrudes that his unyielding posture reminds me of the assurance and command that he projected when we were locked in the cabin. Involuntarily, my body reacts to the memories. He notices, of course. With catlike grace he rises from the couch and stands beside me, bowing his head to whisper into my ear. His tone alone makes me shiver, but it is his words that set my pulse racing. "Are you remembering? Are you thinking of that night?" The room seems to tilt dangerously. It is as if we are back in the cabin, with his voice enthralling me once again. "The memories turn you on, don't they? Didn't it feel good to just let go and do as you were told?" As if struck mute, I nod hesitantly. He lays a warm hand on my back as he continues. "You'd thought about it before, hadn't you? Long before that weekend. You've closed your eyes and touched yourself, pretending it was someone else touching your helpless body." I'm startled to realize that he is guiding me into my bedroom. When we reach the bed he stops and I remain still, robbed of initiative by his effortless assertion of control over me. His hand lifts from my back, leaving it cold and bereft. When his voice comes again I realize that he has stepped away from me a bit. "You haven't answered my question." I should be seething, but he's using just the right tone to keep me compliant. I want to hear him speak again. Hanging my head in defeat, I give him the only answer I can. "Yes. Yes, I have pretended that." It feels as though the last word hangs in the air interminably before his hands close on my upper arms and the heat of his body tells me that he is right behind me again. "I've pretended the same thing, Scully. Let me show you." *This* is not a turn I expected the conversation to take. "What do you mean?" "I mean that it is a harmless fantasy to give up control during lovemaking. Many people enjoy it--myself included." He turns me to face him, his eyes beseeching. In the moment that he moved away from me, he removed his shirt and now stands before me half-naked and vulnerable. "Let me show you that, Scully. I want to put myself in your hands. You can touch me however you want, you can ask me anything, you can tell me to do anything. Please." I'm stunned into speechlessness. This was the last thing in the world that I expected from Mulder. I can only guess at his true motivations. Is this a gesture of trust on his part? Does he think it will bring us back together? How in the world could another misguided sexual encounter help us? But I'd be lying if I said that the idea didn't intrigue me. "Mulder, I don't know." He cups my face in his hands. "Please, Scully. Let me give this to you." I must be insane to consider this, but I do. I've wondered for so long what it would be like to touch him that the idea is nearly irresistible. Suddenly and with perfect clarity, I realize that I don't know if we can ever recover from what happened, but what I do know for sure is that I don't want our experience in Tennessee to be the only sexual memory he ever has of me. Yes, I'm willing to make a new one. "Um, what do you want me to do?" Relief, barely perceptible, flashes across his face. "Anything you want, Scully. I'm at your disposal, and you're in control." My pulse is fluttering with not-entirely pleasant anticipation. I can't meet his eyes, staring instead at his chest. Mulder has a good chest: not hairy, muscular but not bulky. I lift my hand toward him, but can't quite bring myself to make contact. His soft voice comes from above me. "You can touch me if you want, Scully. Two months ago, I would have given anything for you to touch me of your own free will." I reach out and tentatively run my hand from the hollow of his neck down his abdomen. "Mulder, I told you I don't blame you. You don't need to feel guilty." The vehemence in his voice startles me. "Is that what you think, Scully? I didn't want you touch me because I felt *guilty.* I wanted it because more than anything else, I wanted to make love to you that weekend. I still do." I shake my head in confusion. How could he still want me after seeing me like that, so needy and weak? He blows out a breath in a puff of frustration. "How can you doubt that?" My mind is too abuzz to make much sense of his words. Instead, I bring my other hand up, stroking over his shoulders and back down his chest again. Was he serious about me being in control? "Could you lie down on the bed?" His lips quirk into a half-smile at my tentative tone. I tell myself that I've done this before; I don't need to be so hesitant. "Take off your jeans and lie down on the bed." He nods at the new edge in my voice and complies. For a moment I drink in the sight of him stretched out on the bed wearing only his boxers. Then, as I start to climb up next to him, a black canvas duffel bag on the floor catches my eye. "Mulder, what is this?" He lifts himself up on his elbows and looks at the bag sheepishly. "I, uh, I had those things from...before. I brought them in case you wanted to use them." I open the bag and pull out a blindfold and a pair of leather cuffs, padded with wool and joined by a chain. "You really are serious about this, aren't you?" I notice that the leather of the cuffs is worn and shiny in places. They have been used before. Perhaps Mulder wasn't just trying to console me when he told me that he enjoyed those games too. His response is remarkably serious given the absurdity of the situation. "Scully, I was so desperate to reach you that I would have chained myself naked to your bed while you were gone if I hadn't been afraid that this would be the night your mother came here for dinner." The image of Mulder chained naked to my bed does have a certain appeal. I chuckle to myself as I return to my perusal of his body, searching for the memories of when I did this before, when it was nothing but a game between adventurous lovers. "I'm not going to cuff you, Mulder. But you will not touch me unless told to do so, and you will answer my questions completely and honestly." He swallows hard and nods. A little bit more than you were expecting, eh, Mulder? I'm actually relieved to see that this game does come back to me without difficulty. If the bulge in his boxers is any indication, he is pleased too. My trepidation hasn't vanished, but I push it down to focus on my physical responses and his. With him at my disposal for the first time, my curiosity is overwhelming. I need to touch, I need to taste, I need to learn. I stroke his chest again before leaning down to tentatively kiss his neck, savoring his sharp inhalation and appreciative murmur. He tastes warm and salty and exciting. As I glance down I see the evidence of his arousal swelling against his boxers. Even so, I have to ask. "Mulder, are you sure about this?" He meets my gaze directly. "I am certain about this. I know it looks like I'm trying to make up for what happened, but I'm not--that's impossible. I think you won't talk to me because you feel ashamed that you enjoyed being dominated, and that's wrong. This is the only way I know to show you otherwise. "And this is selfish, Scully, but I can't stand for you to think of me...that way. I can't erase the memory and we may never make love, but no matter what it takes, I want you to have better memories than the ones from that weekend." It is eerie to hear my thoughts echoed so closely. Does he also see us drifting apart? I still want him, but this isn't a reason to make love. Well, it doesn't look as though we'll ever have a normal relationship, so this is my only chance. I take him at his word, shove the jagged edges of anxiety to the back of my mind and turn to exploring his body. He enjoys kisses and nips on his neck and squirms at my tongue tracing the shell of his ear. I kiss my way down his chest to a nipple, but that brings little response. I always feel sorry for men without sensitive nipples. Women too, I suppose. Sex is so boring if it's just about going straight for the genitals. Well, I can adapt to his particular needs. My lips move back to his neck while my hand starts to stroke his belly just above the line of hair that tempts me to follow it downward. Not yet, though. Mulder said that this was about more than touch: that I could ask him questions, and I intend to. "Mulder, why did you bring us down there in the first place? It wasn't for the case, was it?" I see a brief struggle in his eyes before he responds. "I wanted...I hoped for us to spend the weekend together." Oh, God. I was right. What I'd fretted and worried about was true. That chance had hung before me like fruit on a vine and been snatched away before I could reach for it. I need time to process this. I ignore the slight tremor in my hand as I lift it over his straining erection teasingly: I can control it. I savor his moan as I lower my hand to stroke him. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" It takes him a moment to respond, which is what I was trying for. "Because what happened was such an ironic distortion of what I wanted. I wanted to talk to you about changing our relationship, Scully. I went down there in hopes of making love to you in a nice, secluded place in the woods. Be careful what you wish for, huh?" I should never have gone along with this. This must be the end--that's why he's telling me this. Maybe he still loves me, but he couldn't possibly respect me any more. Couldn't still want me. I pause the motion of my hand as I torment myself by pressing for the words that will finalize the break between us that began two months ago. "Why are you here now?" He looks startled. "Why do you think? I want to make things better and didn't know what else to do. I could feel you pulling away from me, Scully. I had to find a way to reach you." I could ask why he didn't talk to me, but I know the answer: because he knew I wouldn't. I still can't. I slide my hand under the elastic waistband of his boxers, for the first time touching his hot, smooth skin. His pulse beats under my hand as I set up a steady stroke. He moans appreciatively, bucking his hips. The long, clean lines of his body are so beautiful that my breath catches in my throat. Gradually I increase the tempo, watching his body arch in response. His gasps become increasingly, enticingly ragged. I stroke him until my wrist begins to tire, but in spite of my efforts he doesn't find release. His face twists in a grimace of pain, not pleasure. I redouble my efforts to no avail. That's when I realize what is really happening. Mulder can't let himself enjoy this. He isn't just trying to allay my fears or get me to open up. He wants to do penance for his part in what happened to me. My movements become mechanical as I puzzle over what this means. What role do I have in this drama? That thought rocks me back on my heels. "Mulder, how could you do this to me?" He lifts his head to look at me with glazed eyes. "Wha...? What do you mean?" Anger is burning away my earlier fears and doubts. "This! How could you do this? You're doing this because you feel guilty. You want to suffer--and that makes me the abuser." The shock in his eyes tells me that whatever his plan was, that wasn't it. "I...I'm sorry, Scully. I swear that's not what I had in mind. I just...I thought we had to talk about this and your embarrassment was stopping you." Embarrassment? That doesn't begin to cover it. Humiliation, perhaps? But not because of what you did. Because I loved it, every minute of it. "Why like this, Mulder?" He pauses for a moment, apparently choosing his words carefully. "I wanted to give you control back, that's true. But all I was hoping was that if you saw how much I enjoyed it too, then at least we could get to the point where we could talk. And then we could really start to deal with things." Another long pause. "And God help me, Scully, but I *wanted* it to be real so badly that I talked myself into thinking this would be best for you." Now it is my turn to sort through the maelstrom of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. Eventually one thing becomes clear: whatever else this has done, it has made me realize I don't want to leave Mulder and I don't want him to leave me. I cling to that thought like a lifeline as I sort through what to do next. I don't know if I'm more angry or hurt by what he has done tonight. I bear some blame for not talking to him earlier, which forced him to take these measures, but even so how could he have made such a staggering miscalculation twice? "Mulder, by all accounts you have brilliant insights into the human mind. I have seen you predict criminal behavior down to the last detail. Why"--I struggle to speak through my tightening throat--"why can you know me so well but get me so wrong?" He sighs heavily. "Because you aren't a case file to me. I can't think about you as a problem; I can't think about you in isolation. When you hurt, I hurt, and when I try to analyze your pain, I can't help but shape it into a problem that *I* can solve. I need to solve it, Scully, because I can't stand to see you suffer." His eyelids flicker shut before he forces them open and meets my eyes resolutely. "Because I love you." I hate how needy my next question sounds, but I have to ask it. "This isn't a goodbye fuck, then?" That may be the first thing I've said that's really shocked him, and it takes him a moment to answer. "No! First, it isn't goodbye, and second, it isn't a fuck. I would give anything in the world to make things better, and the only proof I have to offer is giving you my body and soul. I don't know where we'll go from here, Scully, but I'm not leaving you. God knows I don't want you to leave me." Finally emptied of words, he stares at me, exhaustion and trepidation etched on his haggard face. Suddenly I realize that I have given him no indication of whether I return his feelings. Perhaps it is not so surprising that he was unable to read me accurately, when I have constantly tried to hide the tiniest clues from him. So now it's time for me to decide what I want. As I deliberate I stroke his erection again, which has hardly flagged during our conversation. He emits a stifled moan. Although Mulder wears so many of his passions on his sleeve, I am beginning to suspect that emotional openness is easiest for him when accompanied by sexual intimacy. Is that what he was subconsciously seeking tonight? There are layers upon layers of things that we've hidden from one another; things that I want to discover. "I don't know where to go either, Mulder. I know I don't want to leave." I choke back the word "anymore" before I utter it. There's no need to get into that now. He's waiting for something else, I know, but I can't quite bring myself to tell him I love him. Not yet, not like this. Instead, I try to show him. He'll know what it means. He has to. Watching his face intently, I gently increase the speed and pressure of my strokes. I don't think he likes being watched so closely, but he doesn't turn away either. He is sincere about laying himself as bare to me as I was offered to him. Still caressing with one hand, I start to work his boxers down. He lifts his hips to help me and I quickly undress him and toss the boxers aside. For the first time I actually have the chance to study him, to examine his beautiful bare body. I run my palm over him several times, savoring his heat. Catching his eye and holding his gaze with mine, I lower my head until my lips hover a few inches above his straining cock. Carefully and deliberately I exhale, teasing him with the warmth of my breath. His guttural moan encourages me to repeat the action before I press a light, open-mouthed kiss to his shaft. I'm startled but not really surprised when he touches me for the first time, stroking my cheek with a trembling hand. At my questioning glance, he tells me insistently, "You don't have to do this, Scully. I don't expect it." A warm sensation rushes through me at his reassurance. "It's okay, Mulder. I want to. I want to make better memories for both of us." I'm not saying that his protest was token, but he certainly doesn't need any more convincing. His head falls back and his hips lift slightly. Chuckling at his eagerness, I lower my mouth again. Pausing just long enough to tease him, I take him in hand and begin kissing him gently again, touching him everywhere with my lips and tongue. He hisses sharply when my lips come to hover over the crown of his penis. Then, ever so slowly, I take him into my mouth. He does an admirable job of keeping his hips still as I start to move, teasing him with my tongue as I slide my lips up and down his shaft. Gently squeezing the base of his cock, I speed up just a little bit. It's been a *very* long time since I last gave a blow job, but the skills seem to be coming back. As his breathing grows harsher, I feel an echo of desire in my own body, matched by the unwelcome fear that has accompanied arousal ever since we returned from Tennessee. I push it back. Soon I'll have to deal with that fear, but not yet. Please, not yet. I pull an old trick out of my hat: one that I haven't had occasion to use in quite a while. Tightening my grip a bit I move my mouth slowly up his shaft again, until my lips encircle the base of his crown. A pause, and then back down. As I work my mouth upward again, I carefully slide my hand down. My hand comes upward to meet my mouth as I take him deeper again, and I repeat the process, always moving my hand in the direction opposite to my mouth. "Unh!" I lift my mouth enough to give him my best sly grin. "What was that, Mulder?" "Oh! That's good, Scully. That's...mmm...that's really good." If he's that articulate, it's not good enough. I apply a bit more suction on the next pass up, swirl my tongue around the crown, and take him in deeper on the way down. "Oh, God. Oh...uh...Scuh..." Much better. He grows even more enthusiastic as I settle into my pace. I'm glad. I need it to distract me, to keep my roiling emotions pushed down just a little bit longer. "God! Scully!" Jeez, more conversation? "What is it, Mulder?" I think I can guess, but I want to hear him say it. "Gonna...uh...gonna come." I linger on the next downstroke, making my intent clear. "It's okay. Go ahead." Three more strokes and his body arches like a bow. He freezes, arrested there for the space of a few heartbeats, then empties himself into my mouth with uncontrolled, jerky thrusts. Suppressing my distaste I swallow rapidly, slowing my movements and softening my touch until the last spasms cease and he collapses back on the bed again. I lift my eyes to meet his sated, tender gaze. He reaches up to touch my cheek gently, just as he has so many times before... And the next thing I know, I'm curled up into a ball on his chest, sobbing and shouting my rage at him. "God, Mulder! How could you do that to me? I trusted you!" I'm muffling my screams in his bare shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat combined with that of my tears. Memories crash over me as if a dam has burst, threatening to overwhelm me. "I can't--I can't stop remembering it. Reliving it. I think I'm losing my mind!" He just wraps me in his strong arms, heedless of his nudity. "I'm sorry, Scully. I'm sorry. You're not going crazy, I promise. It's okay." He holds me like that, murmuring reassurances and nonsense, until the tears are all cried out. Only then can I lift my head and say the words I should have said two months ago. "Mulder, I'm not okay. I don't think I can ever be okay again." He rolls us to the side. Between his firm body and the soft mattress I feel sheltered, perhaps just a little protected. "No, Scully, you're not okay. But you will be. We'll do whatever it takes to get through this. And we have the rest of our lives to do it. I'm not leaving you." I can finally muster a tiny smile. "The rest of our lives? Think it'll take that long?" He hears in my words the promise to stay with him and smiles back. "I hope not. I think that we're both very motivated to go a little faster than that." ******************** The hardest thing to deal with in the recovery was also the reason that I couldn't talk to anyone else about it. As difficult as it is for me to accept, in a very real sense I was raped. I was taken against my will and endured the violation of my mind and body by men who I suspect were responsible for my first abduction. In a literal sense, however, there was no rape. Rape is an act of violence, an assault in which the assailant's weapon is his penis. The rapist may experience the gratification of ejaculation (though many do not), but ultimately it is not about sexual pleasure. It is a perversion of sexual intercourse into an act of abuse and violation. The bizarre part of my experience, what has made it impossible to discuss with someone trained in assisting survivors of a "normal" occurrence of that abnormal act, is that the violation was divorced from the sex, which was intended to and did give me immense pleasure. I think that those who did this to us--yes, us, not just me-- must have assumed that my mind would link the two, turning me irrevocably against Mulder. Or, if he is correct, they believed that the very act of him deducing and acting out my fantasies was an invasion that I would be unable to forgive. In a way I am relieved for that, because their efforts to cast Mulder as the villain prevented them from committing those violations themselves. I don't know how they found out about my predilections in that area; perhaps through observing my occasional purchases at a bookstore or by tracking the internet sites I visited. I suppose it's a good thing they weren't monitoring my video rentals during my George Clooney phase. Yes, definitely. I think I'd rather have people know that I like to be spanked than that I paid good money to rent "Batman and Robin." In the end, though, it doesn't matter. Only Mulder really knows my secrets and fantasies, and I can live with that. That night in my apartment was a turning point for us. The dam I'd built to hold back my feelings was broken and the slow process of healing began. It wasn't easy; in fact, it got worse before it got better. My nightmares came back with a vengeance. In the office I was brittle and snappish from the fatigue, and after work I was often too embarrassed by my fragile control of my emotions to open myself up to Mulder. Bit by bit, though, it became easier. In fits and starts, I was able to tell him most of what had happened to me, how angry I was and how violated I felt. He would sit and listen, anguish etched on his face, and let me purge the memories that were poisoning me. I started keeping a notebook by my bedside at night. At first it was there so that when a nightmare awoke me I could pour my rage and pain out onto the pages, which I usually destroyed the next morning. As they became less frequent, I wrote in it before bedtime, visualizing a peaceful night of dreamless sleep. Over time, the nightmares became less frequent and the memories, now released, less poisonous. As I began to free myself from the prison of my tangled emotions, I realized that I was not the only one suffering. Though he had initially denied feeling guilt, unwilling to divert any attention from his earnest if clumsy efforts to help me, Mulder too had been terribly affected by that weekend. Even as working through my trauma eased my pain, it intensified his as he learned how deeply his errors had affected me. He needed the catharsis of expunging the memories as much as I did. It wasn't easy to convince him. In the end, I finally did so by reminding him that the trauma involved both of us, not just me. He wouldn't even look at me as he began to recount his experience of the weekend, in some ways a dark mirror of mine. "When I realized what they'd done to you I was so angry that I couldn't see straight. But..." "What, Mulder? Tell me." "I...I wanted you. What they offered me was a perversion of all my plans, but it was still you, Scully. It was wrong, but even so I wanted you. All I could think of then was trying to protect you from that. Protect you from myself." If the situation hadn't been so serious, the look of shame on his face when he told me about relieving his own needs would have been almost funny. Haltingly he explained each decision he made to protect my body. In the end, it became clear that his downfall was that very combination of impulsiveness and intensity that so characterizes his work in the field. Once he chose his path he followed it with single-minded intensity, never realizing that I might find the mental violation worse than the physical. I once told Mulder not everything was about him, and never is that more true than now. In the past, our enemies simply used me, my disappearance, my illness, to torment Mulder. That weekend we reached a terrible equality in the minds of our foes; for once I was the target of their plans, not merely a tool. We will not let those plans succeed. When Mulder had finally purged himself of the memories, we sat semi-reclined on his couch, my back to his chest, and he told me of the hopes that he had for the weekend. "I had the perfect place for us, Scully. It was a little bed- and-breakfast with a view of the mountains. I got us a suite with two bedrooms, in case that's what you wanted, and I would have been happy just to spend the weekend with you. But I wanted so badly to change things between us, to make love to you. I couldn't stand for that to be taken away from us." Then it was my turn to open up to him. I told him about my suspicions about his plans, my fears about a relationship and, finally, the terrible allure of the fantasy we were given. Only then could I tell him that even as I feared he would lose all respect for me by our actions, I found nearly boundless sexual pleasure in them. Rather than shaming me further, as I had feared, the confession was oddly liberating. In admitting those desires aloud to myself and to Mulder, I began to accept them. More importantly, I took control of them. They are a part of my sexual makeup that I choose to enjoy, not a forbidden pleasure to be hidden from myself and my lover. Only then could we talk about becoming lovers. I wish it had felt easy and natural, but it didn't. Both of our lives are forever changed by the assault, and while Mulder's unorthodox therapy was the catalyst for our emotional reawakening, it had the opposite effect on my libido. Even as we grew closer emotionally, sexually I became more withdrawn. Mulder never initiated sexual contact with me after that night, though he hugged me more and more frequently as he realized he could do so whenever he wanted. On several occasions I tried to turn the comforting embraces into something more, but inevitably froze up. Once we had gotten through the worst of the emotional storms, we began to try to separate in our minds the assault by our captors from the sexual encounter that followed. Bit by bit, we have reclaimed that experience for ourselves. ***** First was the slow dance toward replacing the negative associations with positive ones. A month after that pivotal encounter in my bedroom we were there again, both nude, but it was different this time. There was no effort to make love, no sexual contact at all. Instead, we gently explored each other's bodies to learn them anew. I ran my hands gently over the scars that marred Mulder's beautiful body, using them as mnemonics to recall our lives together. I traced the contours of his face, now more familiar to me than my own, and studied each line of the hands that communicate so much in a single touch. I stroked his chest and his back, ran my fingers from his long feet up his bony shins to his lean thighs, and even made the platonic acquaintance of his toned buttocks. When the evening was over his body was just that: the flesh and bone that house the man I love. Not that of a stranger, not that of a man who would use me callously, not even the body that had responded mechanically to my ministrations earlier. It was the body that stood beside me during trials, sheltered me from harm and supported me in sickness. When Mulder turned his attention to me, his gentle touches were exactly what I would have predicted from him. His eyes shone with the intense concentration that I have seen from him a thousand times, though never directed at me. He learned my body just has he had learned my mind and spirit in our years together. For the first time in weeks, tendrils of desire stroked over me at his careful exploration. The next step took me by surprise. We left work on a Friday with plans to meet for a late lunch the next day. When I opened my briefcase that night, however, on top of my files was a paper covered with Mulder's distinctive scrawl. I began to skim it, assuming that it was his notes about the case we were considering taking on. It wasn't. I had to sit down to finish it, grateful there was no one to see my flaming cheeks. Mulder had written me a vivid description of one of his fantasies about us. *Very* vivid. It was also sweet and gentle and touching, and nothing I would have expected from a man with Mulder's taste in entertainment. He hadn't written it just to arouse me, even though it had quite effectively. That yellow paper in my hand was one more reminder that Mulder was doing everything he could to open himself up to me, to freely offer me the vulnerability that I had unwillingly given him. Red-hot pokers couldn't make me confess to putting it under my pillow that night. Then we really talked about making love. We sat on his couch, his arms strong around me, and imagined that we'd gone to the cabin of our own will. Each spun a fantasy for the other of how our lovemaking would have unfolded. We reclaimed the experience for ourselves, creating our own meaning for it. By the time it was over, I had finally freed myself from all the fears I had once felt at Mulder's touch. We were lovers now in mind and spirit, soon to be in body. ***** I knew Mulder was waiting for me to decide when we would take that final step. In the meantime we began, for want of a better word, dating. Weekends now included a movie or dinner at a better sort of restaurant than we usually patronize. I cooked for him once, and we had increasingly hotter make-out sessions on his couch. It was almost like planning to lose my virginity all over again. I wanted him more each time I saw him, but I was still nervous about taking that final step. The silliest thing convinced me that it was time, really. We were watching a video at my apartment, and got into a battle over the remote control. I subscribe to the "it's my apartment, so I control the remote" school of thought. In my world, the driver of the car also has undisputed power over the radio. Mulder, however, follows the "I'm a man, so I control the remote" faction. (His theories on the car radio have never been clear to me, but I believe his guiding principle is "I have a short attention span, so I change the station when I get bored or every ten minutes, whichever comes first.) My cunning tactical maneuver was to ask him to get me another beer and then snatch the remote while he was in the kitchen. Mulder's years of investigative training were not in vain, however, and he caught onto me the minute he sat down and reached automatically for the missing control. As he turned accusing eyes on me, I leaned away from him and held it out of his reach. I'm not sure what I was expecting him to do, but certainly it wasn't what he did next. Rather than reaching for the remote, he grabbed me around the waist and tickled me. *Tickled* me. Mulder has never tickled me before. In spite of all the years that he has bantered and sparred with me verbally, he rarely touches me playfully. It made me realize that we've already reached a new level of physical intimacy. He no longer touched me as thought I might break, as though he had to protect me. He could touch me for fun. And so I've decided it is time for us. I took us out for a quiet dinner in a restaurant with high booths and dim lights. We talked about everything and nothing, we had wine, there may have been some goo-goo eyes and giggling. Over coffee I reached for his hand and held his gaze when he asked me what I wanted to do after dinner. He got the message. His eyes glowed and he gave me a feral grin that took my breath away. And so now, as I enter my apartment with him in tow, I am acutely aware that we're opening the door to one of the most profound changes in our lives. ******************** Handing my coat to him, I go to the kitchen to make tea while he puts away our things. Over the noise I make filling the pot and placing it to boil, I don't hear him creep up behind me. He announces himself with the heat of his body and soft breath in my ear, his hands gentle on my shoulders. "Lovely dinner, wasn't it, Scully?" "Mm-hm," I agree, tilting my head to give him better access to my neck as he presses hot kisses against it. "Wonderful food. Good conversation. That pretty dress of yours. What is it, velvet?" "Yes," I whisper, feeling my breasts tingle in anticipation as his hands brush ever so lightly down my sides, just teasing their outer curves before stroking down to grasp my hips. I grunt as he pulls me back against him, letting me feel his hardness before he releases me. Then his hands reverse their earlier path, drifting up my sides with agonizing slowness until they again trace the curve of my breasts and slide back down. I reach for him only to have him catch my hands and lower them again. "Focus on the tea, Scully. I like the stuff we had last time. Could you get a bag for me?" Ever obliging, I step to the side and reach for the teabags in the cupboard above the counter. I drop the box of decaf Constant Comment with a yelp as his hands dart up to circle my erect nipples. "See? That's why you should be paying more attention." He's still making circles over my nipples, keeping the touch light even though I arch into his hands, seeking firmer pressure. He chuckles as I retrieve the box, the warmth of his breath in my ear sending shivers through me. "Yes, I do like the velvet. So...touchable." His hands now slip down and teasingly dip between my legs, eliciting a gasp from me. "Do you want to use the usual mugs?" Without waiting for an answer he reaches for the mugs, leaving me bereft of his touch. Once he has placed them in front of me his hands make the same long pass down my body before returning to my breasts, now lingering to rub my nipples more firmly. "Water's boiling." He settles into a rhythm as I place the teabags in their respective mugs, then considerately removes his hands as I stretch my arm to retrieve the kettle and carefully pour the water. "Sugar for me, please." As I reach to get it, he chooses that moment of distraction to pinch my nipples firmly, and I nearly drop the bowl as well. He knows exactly what that does to me. "The problem with velvet," he continues as his hands slide downward again, "is that you have to watch out for the nap of the fabric. Don't want to rub it the wrong way." Surprised though I am that Mulder knows about fabrics and naps, I'm having trouble concentrating on the conversation. I feel my legs part slightly as his hands keep stroking down the front of my skirt. His breath is closer to my ear as he leans down to reach the hem, which floats a few inches above my knees. His hands slip gently beneath the skirt, coming to rest on my thighs. "Ooh, what's this? Silk?" I'm enjoying the sensation of his fingers creeping up my legs far too much to explain that stockings aren't made of silk anymore. His fingertips skim over the lace at the top of the garterless thigh-highs and reach my bare skin. "Yes, definitely silk." I part my legs further in invitation--not an easy thing to do given that I'm still leaning against the counter with him behind me--but he doesn't take me up on it. He traces my hipbones before sliding his hands up my ribcage and cupping my breasts. All doubts I had about how well my high-waisted, loose-fitting dress suited me are now gone. It suits me just fine, but the heat pooling between my legs and the need starting to gnaw at me tell me that I don't want to wear it much longer. I lean into his hands again as he touches me more firmly, the lace of my demi-bra irritating my nipples. Come to think of it, between the stockings, bra, and lace panties, the dress is the only comfortable thing that I have on tonight. With any luck, that will be rectified soon. Yes, it looks like it will be. He deftly unclasps the bra and pushes the cups to either side. Finally I feel his hot touch directly on my skin. Tired of being passive, I back into him slightly, feeling his erection hot and rock-hard against me. At his quick inhalation I do it again, just to make my point. "Oh, Scully. That's naughty." He thrusts against me at the same time that he pinches my nipples hard, almost to the point of pain. Just the way I like it when I'm this excited. My head falls back against his chest as he continues to stimulate me, his pressure becoming firmer to compensate for the diminished sensitivity as my arousal increases. I feel myself getting wet, the fluid saturating the scratchy lace at the crotch of my panties. The squeezing continues, steady and firm, while his thrusts press me into the counter. I strain against it awkwardly, trying to angle myself to find the pressure that will soothe the ache between my thighs. He chuckles softly. "Having a problem, Scully?" Two can play at this game, I decide. I wiggle my rear against him firmly, reveling in his moan. Recovering, he moves his hot hand back between my legs. His fingers trace along the tops of my stockings again. As they run over my inner thighs sparks of electricity seem to flash directly to my throbbing clit. "Hmm. As I was saying, silk." His fingers skate upward and press firmly. I gasp and jerk forward. "Silk and lace." He starts to circle my clit firmly with the pads of his fingers, the rough texture of the lace exciting me so much that I lose the rhythm of my thrusts against him. Abandoning the effort, I brace myself against the counter with my hands and wantonly thrust against his teasing fingers, arching my back to encourage him to continue working my nipple with his other hand. His hot breath teases my ear as he leans in to whisper into it again. "You're getting greedy, Scully. We can't have that." I groan in disappointment as he withdraws his hands and steps back. Seconds later I feel something soft around my right wrist. He has wrapped his tie around it and is tugging gently, drawing me toward the bedroom. As we reach the doorway, though, he halts me. Cupping my face in his hand, he searches my expression for any hint of discomfort. At my reassuring nod, a beautiful grin splits his face. "Come on, Scully. Let's get this show on the road." He pulls me into the room, his smile now replaced by a smoldering look that curls my toes and melts my insides. I follow him docilely until we are standing in front of my bed. He lets the tie fall and looks to me for guidance. Eager as I am to feel his hands on me again, I decide it is time for me to take a more active role. Stepping in close to him, I hook a hand behind his neck and pull his head down for a kiss. He complies eagerly, bringing his face close to mine. Never one to rush his kisses, Mulder brushes his lips against mine, savoring the moment before his tongue seeks entrance. I gladly give it, rubbing his hot tongue with my own. When he's thoroughly distracted, I stealthily slide my free hand between our bodies and cup him firmly. "Uh!" I grin to myself as he moans into my mouth. When he starts to lift his head I tighten my hand on the back of his neck. Getting the message, he presses his lips back to mine, intensifying the kiss as I gently squeeze and fondle him. His kisses get sloppier as I trace the shape of his cock through his slacks. When I move to lower his zipper, he finally tears his mouth from mine. "God, Scully, yeah. Touch me." I slip my hand into his fly, caressing him through the thin fabric of his boxers. He groans again, tossing his head back. I admire the beautiful line of his throat as I continue to stroke him gently. His hands go to my shoulders. He squeezes them gently before he regretfully catches my wrist and removes my hand from his slacks. Then he steps back and begins to undress. His eyes hold mine as he efficiently removes his clothing and lays it aside. When he is finished, he stands naked and vulnerable before me, his hands at his sides. He won't move until I say the word, I know. I smile warmly at him and lift my hands. He lunges toward me in more ways than one, stopping just short of touching me. His hands reach up and cup my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones with heart-rending tenderness. Gently, as slowly as if we had all the time in the world, he inclines his head toward mine. His lips meet mine sweetly once, twice, then with more pressure. My lips part for his probing tongue as his big, warm hands again squeeze my shoulders. Suddenly he breaks the kiss with a groan, clutching my shoulders. Glancing down, I realize that my loosely flowing dress is brushing his erection. "Is this washable?" All this concern with fabric care is making me wonder if this is really my Mulder, but I'm not about to investigate now. "Yes," I fib. His guttural moan thrills me as he pulls me closer, thrusting his hips gently as the swirling fabric envelops him. His hands slide down to cup my breasts possessively and I press into him, reveling in the sensation as his fingers reflexively tighten. He chuckles as he feels my open bra through the fabric of the dress. A few more thrusts, a few more squeezes, and he reaches for the hem of my dress. "May I?" At my nod, he whisks the dress up and over my head, laying it on a chair over his clothes. Then he slips the bra from my shoulders and tosses it aside. I'm now wearing only panties, my thigh-high stockings, and my pumps. All humor is gone from his eyes as he molds my breasts again. Pinning me with his burning gaze, he deliberately brushes my erect nipples with his thumbs. I shiver as he begins to draw teasing circles. "I love feeling your body respond to me like this, Scully. I like to see your skin flush; I love seeing your nipples perk up." He leans in to bring his lips maddeningly close to mine, keeping them just out of reach. Suddenly he pinches my nipples hard. When I gasp he swoops down, claiming my mouth with his. His tongue strokes mine as his fingers squeeze possessively. At my moan he deepens the kiss and tightens his pressure. I have to break the kiss, gasping for breath as he switches his focus to my neck, never lessening the sweet torment of my tight nipples. He begins to kiss down my neck, lingering teasingly on my sternum. One hand slips from my breast to slide lovingly behind me, tracing the curve of my spine before finally coming to rest on my rear. I barely notice the gentle squeeze, so enthralled am I by the sight and sensation of his lips kissing their way across the upper curve of my breast. My breath hitches just a bit as his tongue slips out and traces back up the path his lips just took. The hand still on my other breast keeps up its rhythmic squeezing. He's watching me closely, his eyes twinkling as he works his way back down my breast. He hovers over my nipple for just a moment, watching me pant, before finally he draws the straining peak into his mouth. My knees buckle at the firm suction, and the excitement building deep in my belly intensifies. He works me for a long time, sometimes sucking, sometimes flicking with his tongue. When I'm moaning aloud he switches to the other breast, nipping it with his teeth. Slowly, he starts to work his way down my body. He drops to his knees as his lips move down my belly. They trace a path down my thigh, pausing at the upper band of my stocking. He glances up at me and grins. "You'll have to wear these for me again sometime, Scully." I nod shakily as he carefully rolls the stocking down my leg, kissing the skin that he uncovers. When he reaches my foot, he slips off my pump and slides the stocking all the way off. Just to be thorough, he removes the other shoe before reaching for the top of the other stocking and following the same process. By the time he's done, I'm shaking in anticipation of further kisses. He goes back to my upper thighs, pausing to inhale deeply. Then he's between my legs, his hot mouth on my clit. I cry out at the electric sensation of his tongue probing me through the now very damp fabric of my panties. He pauses and looks up at me, his breathing ragged. "I love to hear you make those noises." His lips close over my clit again and he sucks rhythmically a few times, tightening his grip on my buttocks as I sway in response. "I want to make you come like this, Scully. I want to lay you on the bed, strip off your panties, and lick you until you scream. Then I want to bury my cock in your sweet body and make love to you until you do it again." There's only one possible answer to a statement like that. "Okay." ***** Mulder gets to his feet somewhat stiffly, grinning sheepishly as one of his knees makes an audible pop. He tosses the bedspread back with a lavish gesture before scooping me up and placing me gently on the bed. He runs his hands over my body again, palming my breasts, caressing my belly and smoothing over my thighs. "You're so beautiful, Scully. I'll never get tired of looking at you." Sweet though his words are, I want more. "Mulder, right now I'm more worried about you getting tired of touching me." He smiles as he joins me on the bed. "Never." Pressing his body against mine, he leans in for another kiss. His right hand wanders over my body again, toying with a nipple before moving down between my legs. Kissing me harder, he starts to circle my clit with the pads of his fingers. When I begin to whimper he breaks the kiss, moving his lips to my ear instead. "You're so wet, Scully. It makes me crazy to feel how wet you are. Want to see?" Not quite sure what he is asking, I nod. He leans forward, supporting his weight with his hands, and rolls on top of me. His hard cock rests in the juncture of my thighs, separated from where we both want it to be only by the thin fabric of my panties. Then he thrusts. The motion puts such wonderful pressure on my clit that my hips begin to rock involuntarily, spurred on by his guttural moan. Within moments I'm thrusting hard and fast, wantonly trying to rub myself to orgasm against him, but Mulder has other ideas. "Not like this." He stops and I groan in frustration. Finally he removes my panties. I feel embarrassingly wet as he draws his hand slowly up my inner thigh. Watching me intently, he circles my clit with a deliberate touch. My hips undulate slowly in response. "Tell me how it feels, Scully." "Mmm...that feels good, Mulder. I love how you"--my voice catches as he slides a finger into me--"how you touch me." He watches my face carefully as he thrusts gently for a moment, then pulls out. He circles my clit again with the pads of two fingers, then presses them into my body. When I'm sighing in pleasure at his thrusts, he pulls out and returns to my clit. Then I feel three fingers at my entrance. I know what he's doing. I haven't had sex in so long that he's worried it will be uncomfortable for me. I feel a flutter of anxiety again, but his face reassures me. He's watching me tenderly, but with complete confidence. There is no hesitation in his touch. The nervousness melts away as quickly as it had appeared, banished by the easy authority that my body responds to so readily. He sees me relax and pushes his fingers home slowly, letting me adjust. This time his thrusts are accompanied by his thumb on my clit. I writhe at the dual pleasure of the light pressure on my clit and the thick penetration of his fingers, instinctively parting my legs further. He smiles down at me indulgently as his thumb moves more quickly. "I'm going to make you feel so good, baby--" He breaks off, looking stricken. I realize he's afraid the endearment brought up memories better left buried. "It's okay, Mulder," I reassure him. I won't let this spoil our moment. We didn't go through everything we have in the past few months just so we could have sex. We did it so that we could be free with each other. "You can touch me any way you want, call me whatever you want. Nothing they did matters to us here." Reassured, he bends his head to my breasts again. He has learned very quickly how sensitive my nipples are, and now uses that to his full advantage. Another bolt of heat goes through me as he worries my nipple with his teeth. When I'm panting again he lifts his mouth, replacing it with his fingers. My back arches of the bed when he squeezes firmly. "That feel okay?" "Yes, Mulder. It feels wonderful." He smiles in satisfaction before he moves on all fours above me. His lips return to my nipple, kiss their way down my belly and pause over my clit. I shiver in anticipation, feeling my breath fluttering deep in my diaphragm. Then he lowers his mouth. Confidently, with no hesitation, he licks my clit in a long, firm stroke. "Oh!" My head falls back as he repeats the action before exploring further. He alternates slow passes along my labia with gentle probing of my vagina and those toe-curling laps at the throbbing bundle of nerves that is the center of my attention. "God, Mulder. That's so good." "Just you wait, Scully." He returns to the task at hand, moaning softly as his lips work my excited flesh. His knowing touch demands complete responsiveness from me. By now I've lost any inhibitions I might have started the evening with. Involuntarily my legs part wider and my body squirms with excitement. He puts a warm hand flat on my belly to hold me still and starts to lick faster. Once he has stilled me, his strong fingers reach for my nipples and begin a steady rolling and pinching. "OH!" The cry tears from my throat as he jolts my arousal to a higher level. He shoots me a look of pure wickedness. "That's right"--lick--"Scully. I'm"--lick--"going to make you come"--lick--"so hard..." As his touch takes me over completely, my restless squirming stops. Arms limp, legs splayed wide, head heavy on the pillows, I'm too enthralled even to moan, completely enraptured by the lapping sounds from between my legs and the corresponding waves of pleasure that wash over me. Soon the excitement is so all- consuming that I can't even distinguish the sensation of his fingers on my aching nipples from his tongue on my needy clit. Every thought, every sensation is focused on the pressure inexorably building deep in my belly... ...oh, Mulder, I'm so close, so close, keep licking me keep licking me don't stop dontstopdontstop... "Oh! Oh, God! Mulder...Mul--ah! Ahh! OOOHH!" ...and the tension blossoms into pulsing, pounding bliss. ***** It takes me a few moments to realize that Mulder is hovering above me again. One hand still gently caresses my clit as he alternately kisses my neck and whispers to me, "So beautiful. So passionate. God, Scully, I want to be in you so badly..." So why isn't he? Oh. He's waiting for permission. That's sweet of him. The wake of the orgasm has left me totally sated and weak as a kitten, but he's waited long enough. "Yes, Mulder. Please." He groans heavily and positions himself between my legs. I can feel his burning cock in my folds as he rubs through them to lubricate himself. The most momentous occasion of our partnership is at hand and I don't even have the strength to open my eyes. Well, I'll watch next time. Finally I feel the gentle pressure of his cock at my entrance. With some effort, I open my eyes. He's looking down at me with such tenderness that my throat tightens. "I love you," I mouth at him. He offers me the most beautiful smile and lowers his head to press his forehead against mine. Then with a slow, sure push he slides into me. Still floating in an endorphin-soaked haze, I watch him throw his head back before he begins to move his hips with strong, deliberate strokes. His head drops to my neck and I can feel his hot breath against my skin. Thrust...thrust...thrust. His free hand slides down my back, cups my rear for a moment, and then runs along the back of my thigh. He lifts my leg and hooks it over his hip, groaning at the deeper penetration it gives him. Thrust, thrust... Normally I participate a bit more in sex, but there's something wonderful about being too blissed-out even to move. His hands along my body feel like they're molding me back into shape; his cock burning inside me brings me back to myself. My own needs satisfied, I'm wholly absorbed by his pleasure now. His strokes are becoming faster and less regular, his breath panting against my skin. A final, deep thrust and he comes with a long groan of sheer pleasure. A sympathetic shudder wracks my body as his orgasm resonates within me. He has just enough presence of mind to roll us over before he collapses, so that I am cuddled against his side. His arm clutches me weakly as I drift off to sleep. ***** I wake the next morning to the sound of the shower running. In no hurry to get up, I revel in the unexpected lightness in my mood. It's more than sexual satisfaction, I realize. It's peace. Finally Mulder and I have put the events of our imprisonment in Tennessee behind us. I never doubted his love for me or mine for him, but until last night I harbored fears that we might be too damaged by those events to become lovers. We aren't. Making love last night was a wonderful, natural, almost inevitable culmination of our friendship. What happened to us before was a trauma, one that will probably always affect us, but it now has no bearing on our love. Smiling, I laze in bed until the shower shuts off. A few moments later, Mulder pads back into the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. "'Morning, sleepyhead. Any chance you could find me something to wear?" I look him up and down before I reach for the coffee. "I suppose I could, but why would I want to?" He grins at me cheekily. "Because we're going shopping and I can't carry my wallet like this." "Mm. What are we buying?" "We're starting with a new bed. It can go here, in my apartment, doesn't matter. We're gonna need a bigger one." Properly motivated, I get up and start to rummage in my closet for the set of clothes he leaves here for emergencies. "My apartment is good. I've got a feeling that we'll be spending more time here anyway. Any thing else you want to rearrange while you're at it?" He catches the clothes I toss him. "We'll figure it out as we go along." His quicksilver mood switches to serious and he comes to stand beside me, laying his warm hand on my shoulder. "Scully, I don't think I'm presuming to much with this?" I shake my head. Reassured, he continues, "This is a temporary arrangement, I think. Someday, when things are different, I want to look for a new home with you. But with where our lives are now, I don't think we're there yet." "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?" I ask. He nods. "I've been thinking about it for the past couple months." "Yes, so have I." I cover his hand with mine. It feels good there; I feel safe and at peace in a way that I haven't for years. "It's okay, Mulder. We have the rest of our lives." I pull my own clothes from my dresser and head off to the shower. Over my shoulder I call out, "No waterbeds, Mulder. The floor can't handle it." I hear both a grin and a challenge in his answer. "I'm thinking a four-poster. Do you have any idea what I can do with a little rope and a couple of bedposts?" I duck into the bathroom, hiding my blush. I don't know yet, but I'm looking forward to finding out. END ******************** What did you think? Let me know at subrosa31@yahoo.com